


Words That Aren't Despair

by Miss_Prince



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: F/F, Incest, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Prince/pseuds/Miss_Prince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mukuro fails utterly at bringing Junko the despair she craves, but she does provoke many other feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words That Aren't Despair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estuary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estuary/gifts).



**D is for Desire**

Junko’s eyes dart to follow Mukuro’s form as she twists through the hail of bullets in the chamber below. In a split-second opening, Mukuro brings her rifle around and fires off two rounds into one of the practice dummies surrounding her – head and heart, with effortless precision. The gun firing from the dummy’s torso goes dead, but Mukuro is already back to dodging, weaving, flipping around the room.

This is the Mukuro everyone else sees, and oh how Junko envies them at times like this. Those eyes, cold and merciless, the display of sheer physical power (and here Mukuro has decapitated another dummy with her boot knife; the administrators will give her a lecture on the unnecessary destruction of training equipment later) – it makes Junko squirm with heat. It’s even better when it’s the real thing, when the blood of her enemies splashes across her skin and Mukuro does not flinch, when she watches the last bit of life drain from a man without the slightest hint of remorse or sorrow in those dead eyes of hers. Those are the moments when Junko feels the keenest kinship with her sister, the moments when Mukuro almost manages to elevate herself above “disappointment.” But she can make do with the training exercises for now.

The bullet patterns have been improved, Junko notes as she watches Mukuro kick off the ceiling and blast two more dummies. It takes nearly five minutes for Mukuro to put all fifty of them down, and to Junko’s delight several more end up unduly mangled. Whatever comments the researchers have can wait, she decides, and Mukuro has barely stepped out of the test chamber before Junko is dragging her into the nearest empty room, lips attacking her sister’s almost before the door has closed. Junko can feel Mukuro’s heart thumping hard when she moulds herself to her sister’s body, pressing her nails into Mukuro’s shoulders as she attacks her mouth.

Adrenaline is still coursing through Mukuro’s veins, and for a brief, glorious moment she remains half in soldier mode, digging her fingers into Junko’s hips and dragging her as close as possible, growling into the kiss with such fervor that Junko feels an immediate rush of heat between her legs. It’s exactly what she’s craving.

But as the seconds tick away, Mukuro begins to revert to her other self, the self that she always shows to Junko. Her grip on Junko’s hips slackens and turns into an apologetic sort of caress, her lips soften and her participation in the kiss becomes wholly reactive, allowing Junko to plunder her mouth and offering encouragement but taking no initiative. She’s passive, pliant, _disappointing_ Mukuro again, and Junko breaks the kiss and sighs heavily.

“Junko?” Mukuro says, and the hesitance in her voice only frustrates Junko further.

Even if the momentum is stalling, Junko’s not about to waste this build-up. She presses down on her sister’s shoulders, and Mukuro drops to her knees obediently, fingers slipping up beneath Junko’s skirt to pull her underwear aside. At least she can manage this much on her own. Soldiers understand standing orders, after all.

Junko fists her hand in Mukuro’s hair and presses her forward forcefully, though she moves willingly enough. “Disappointing sister,” she sighs, and she feels Mukuro stiffen for an instant before recovering and getting to business, lips and tongue finding Junko’s waiting sex. She hums a little at the sensation; Mukuro’s not completely terrible at this. “You’re not much of a big bad wolf, are you? What’s the point of those ugly muscles of yours if you’re not going to use them to ravish me?”

Mukuro mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like one of the perfunctory apologies Junko so detests, so she responds by yanking her sister’s hair.

“Don’t say you’re sorry if you don’t mean it! Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners? Ah, probably not, growing up with those rough mercenary types, hmm?” Junko pushes her hips forward as Mukuro’s lips latch onto her clit. “All that time living such a rough lifestyle, and you still turn into a meek, eager little puppy when your master walks into the room, don’t you? Faster. And use your fingers. You can’t even manage something like this without orders, can you?”

Mukuro follows Junko’s instructions, of course, and Junko can feel herself getting closer to the edge. They don’t have much more time before someone’s bound to come looking for them, but Mukuro never frets about getting caught. It’s not something she expected from her sister, but in the end it’s yet another way Mukuro has failed to offer Junko any sort of despair.

If she could just ride the wave of her earlier excitement… “You could snap me in half if you wanted to,” she says conversationally, closing her eyes and letting her head tip back. “You could pin my arms above my head and tell me not to move or make a sound or you’ll break my fingers one by one.” Her breathing speeds up slightly, and her hips buck against Mukuro’s mouth. “You could have your wicked wolfy way with me while I lie there helpless and crying.” So close now. She’s rutting against her sister’s face, one hand in her hair and the other moving to grip her jaw, holding her immobile. “You could bring me such beautiful despair…!” And she tumbles over the edge, curling in on herself, grip on her sister tightening just to keep herself upright as she shudders her way through her orgasm.

When the tremors subside, she finally releases Mukuro and turns to slump back against the wall. “But,” she says petulantly, “you never do, do you?”

Mukuro casts her eyes to the floor and wipes her lips and chin with the back of her hand. Her hair is mussed, and her dead eyes are a little glassy with arousal. She actually looks kind of attractive like that, Junko thinks, but that’s beside the point.

She sighs again. “You’d better go before they find us like this, don’t you think?” she prompts.

Mukuro actually looks like she might argue for a second, but she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Instead she picks herself up off the floor, dusts off her knees, and exits the room.

Junko remains in a foul mood the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

**D is for Disappointment**

The concept of Mukuro’s personal space is something that applies to _other_ people. Junko spends a fairly large percentage of her time in Mukuro’s room, messing with Mukuro’s things, or messing with Mukuro herself.

Junko rolls a grenade from hand to hand, as she lounges on Mukuro’s bed, intent on doing all of the above. “Think of the trouble you’d get in if the administrators saw the things you keep in here,” Junko giggles. Mukuro has quite the arsenal packed away in every niche that could be considered even vaguely hidden. “They’d probably kick you out of Hope’s Peak entirely! How despair-inducing!”

This does not get the rise out of her sister that Junko was hoping for. She doesn’t even look up from her homework.

Junko purses her lips in annoyance and casually lets the grenade slip out of her hand. Mukuro is there to catch it almost before it loses contact with her fingertips.

“These aren’t toys, Junko,” she says, but it doesn’t even come out as an admonishment, merely a statement of fact. Water is wet, the sky is blue, grenades aren’t toys.

Junko makes an irritated noise and flops back on her sister’s bed, hitting the pillow with a soft _whumph_. “I’m bored,” she announces, and by now Mukuro should recognize that for the threat it is. “You should entertain me.”

Mukuro pauses with her fingers hovering over the grenade, carefully settled back in its hiding spot. After a moment she straightens, a conflicted look on her face. Then she nods, appearing to make a decision, and turns to Junko.

Junko watches Mukuro’s reaction with curiosity, but she is utterly unprepared for the blur that suddenly leaps onto her, pinning her wrists to the bed, and Mukuro is already shoving her tongue down Junko’s throat before she can register what’s going on.

Once she does, though, she lets out a surprised, delighted little moan into her sister’s aggressive kisses. She tries to lift her hips, but Mukuro drops her weight onto them and keeps them still. How forceful! A thrill of pleasure runs up Junko’s spine.

Mukuro eventually relinquishes her lips to begin planting bruising kisses up and down her neck. Junko gasps and squirms as heat rushes to the pit of her stomach.

“Ah! Mukuro, what are you doing?” she cries dramatically, getting into the moment. “Stop! Help! Stop!”

And then suddenly the weight above her is gone, and the vicious machine that was on its way toward fucking her senseless has reverted into her miserable weakling of a sister, peering down at her. “Are you okay, Junko?” Mukuro bites her lip anxiously. “Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, I thought-“

Junko screams and slams her fist against the mattress. “Stupid, disappointing sister!” she spits, and the way Mukuro flinches away from the words just adds fuel to her rage. “Can’t you do anything right?”

She rises and shoves her sister down, and Mukuro does not resist (of course she doesn’t). She tears at the buttons of her uniform shirt, biting at whatever skin she can expose hard enough to draw blood, scraping her teeth across Mukuro’s ugly freckles, worrying savagely at her lips. Mukuro winces at the pain but does not shy away from Junko’s touch, bearing it all.

Junko thrusts her hand up beneath Mukuro’s skirt and gracelessly pulls her underwear aside before shoving three fingers unceremoniously home, eliciting a shocked little cry from her sister. Her thumb finds Mukuro’s clit, and she fucks her hard and fast and merciless, changing her pace and angle so that Mukuro never has time to adjust.

“Stupid, _stupid_ , disappointing sister,” she hisses in Mukuro’s ear as her fingers piston in and out. “When they look at you, everyone else sees a predator. Maybe it’s that awful smile of yours that makes it look like you’re going to gobble them up. You make them all run from you.”

She can feel Mukuro lifting her hips to meet her thrusts now. She laughs, long and mean. “But you’re not a predator. You’re my little lap dog, and you roll over and offer me your belly and your throat and wag your tail when I rip you open with my teeth.”

She shoves in rough and deep, and Mukuro twitches and comes hard, fingers scrabbling against the sheets, Junko’s name on her lips. And even after all that, when her body stops shaking and finally relaxes, she curls into Junko’s side. How pathetic.

Junko retrieves her fingers and wipes them clean on Mukuro’s white shirt. The rage leaves her all at once, and she props herself against the headboard, drained. Her fingers tangle and fist in the hair just above the nape of her sister’s neck, and she drags Mukuro’s head into her lap, where she seems willing enough to stay.

“So very disappointing,” she sighs heavily, and Mukuro curls in tighter.

 

Two days later, Junko watches her sister from across the room as she talks to Makoto Naegi over lunch. At one point he says something that must be funny, because Mukuro’s wolf grin spreads wide, a carnivore ready to devour the helpless little bunny rabbit that Naegi most assuredly is. But after a beat her face freezes, and with a self-conscious sort of effort, Mukuro pulls the expression back, leaving an uncomfortable, de-fanged smile in its place. It doesn’t seem like it belongs to Mukuro at all.

It bothers Junko. A lot.

She feels a hand clench involuntarily into a fist.

A few moments later, when Naegi is cleaning his food off the floor and Junko is apologizing with a smile that suggests the exact opposite of an apology, the surge of rage has dissipated.

But she’s still bothered.

 

* * *

 

**D is for Devotion**

Junko’s fingers trace Mukuro’s bare collarbone from shoulder to shoulder, then back to center and down along her sternum to her stomach, where Junko gently presses her palm flat, feeling the hard muscle hidden just beneath soft skin. Her fingers stoke idly. She stares down at where her hand lies, but she doesn’t see it.

She sees a strained, alien smile on her sister’s face.

There’s something twisting in her gut, but it isn’t despair. It’s something else, an uncomfortable emotion she can’t name. Junko isn’t accustomed to uncomfortable emotions. Joy, despair, anger, boredom… these are things she understands. But this feeling slides in the gaps between them, a melancholy sadness and a vulnerability, mingled with affection and, perhaps, hope. She wallows in it as her fingers trace soft circles on Mukuro’s skin, raising goosebumps in their wake.

“Junko?”

The room comes back into focus and Junko finds her sister staring at her, head raised just slightly from the pillow so that her dark hair, even as short as it is, still spills across it.

Mukuro bites her lip. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Hmm?” Junko tilts her head. Her fingers climb higher and brush across Mukuro’s breast, causing her sister to shiver. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re-“ Junko lightly pinches a nipple and Mukuro arches into her hand, just a little. “You’re not… yourself.”

“Not myself?” Junko murmurs. She kisses her sister’s stomach once, twice, three times. “Why, Sis, I thought you wanted me to touch you gently!”

A hint of a flush paints itself across Mukuro’s cheeks, and she shifts slightly. A brief, sly smile flits across Junko’s face at how easily her words hit home, but Mukuro speaks again.

“I’m sorry.” When she sees Junko’s eyes narrow, she continues hastily, “I don’t, I mean, whatever I did… I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

It’s not an explanation at all, but the look on Mukuro’s face is so painfully earnest that Junko could almost laugh. But she doesn’t, because she _isn’t_ angry. She’s… something else.

“Do you love me?” Junko asks suddenly.

Mukuro blinks at her, thrown by the sudden turn of their conversation. “Of course I do,” she says.

Junko allows her hand to begin moving again, offering soft caresses that Mukuro’s body subconsciously arches to follow. “Would you love me more if I was like this?” She doesn’t elaborate in words, but her eyes follow her hand as it trails gently, tenderly down to Mukuro’s hip, without the slightest hint of a pinch or a scratch.

“No.”

The response is so quick and so sure that it surprises Junko. She looks at her sister and finds Mukuro looking back with serious eyes.

“I love Junko,” she says with conviction. She brings a hand up to cover the one of Junko’s still resting on her hip. “I want you to be Junko, with everything that means. It’s… wrong, if you’re not.” She squeezes Junko’s hand, and silence falls for a moment.

Then, in a small voice, Mukuro asks, “Would you love _me_ more if I was different?”

So meek and vulnerable. Junko notices that she doesn’t ask the other question, and she wonders if it’s because her sister has naïve, blind faith in Junko’s feelings, or because she’s afraid of the answer.

It would be easy to destroy her here. Mukuro’s core is exposed, her weak point, and Junko could crush it, smash it like an egg and let the despair ooze and run all over. It would surely be beautiful, desparate despair. How could Junko let an opportunity like this go to waste?

She’s silent for a long moment. Then, softly, bittersweetly, she says, “My disappointing sister.”

It’s not an answer, not even an evasive one, but something must have shown on her face because Mukuro doesn’t flinch the way she always does when she hears those words. Her eyes are dark and glittering, and they lock with Junko’s.

And suddenly Junko finds herself on her back, her sister’s body hovering over her. Mukuro’s hands have pinned her wrists again, but there’s no roughness or aggression this time. She simply kisses Junko softly, over and over, almost chaste except for the way she drags at Junko’s bottom lip with just a hint of teeth.

Then she presses a leg up between Junko’s and lowers her body down, and even though this isn’t quite what Junko wants, that somehow makes the whole thing better. She presses her hips down against Mukuro’s leg and magnanimously props up a leg of her own for her sister to grind against, and Mukuro sets a pace that is maddeningly slow to Junko’s impatient personality, but she holds the tempo steady despite all of Junko’s best efforts to speed it up, and that makes it better, too.

Mukuro presses kisses against Junko’s jaw, her throat, her collarbone, and they aren’t anything like the biting, bruising kisses Junko prefers, but underneath their softness is a conviction and passion Junko had frankly never expected her sister to be capable of. She tries to nip back when she can, but Mukuro’s reflexes foil her more often than not.

Eventually, after what feels like eons at her sister’s glacial pace, Junko feels the tightening low in her belly, and when she comes she leans up to bite Mukuro’s shoulder, and Mukuro lets her and follows her over the edge shortly after.

Her sister rolls to the side just enough to keep the bulk of her weight off Junko, and they lie there tangled together in silence, save for the sound of breath rushing in and out.

The uncomfortable feeling in Junko’s chest settles into something warm. She strokes Mukuro’s hair, scraping her nails along her scalp. Her sister. Her beautiful, disappointing sister. Her most precious person.

Junko smiles at the ceiling and begins to plan.


End file.
